From the Cradle to the Grave
by KatZen
Summary: This is a story of friends, meeting and meeting again, until they meet for the final time.
1. The Narrator Speaks

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They belong to their respective owners. This is written purely for entertainment, and no monetary gain is made from this, more's the pity, because I could use the cash in the pre-Christmas present buying time.**

**AN: Ah, yes, the joy of being stuck in an airport on standby because of a cancelled flight that's meant to take me (and a few other irate passengers) back home. But never mind, I have my laptop (with an Internet connection - a week away from the net for a much needed break can be such a long time), a morbid and twisted imagination and a vague plotline. Time should fly by now :)**

From the Cradle to the Grave

_This is a story of friends, meeting and meeting again, until they meet for the final time._

Here is a small, irrefutable fact.

You are going to die.

I am, in fact, being quite cheerful about this. It pleases me that you're assured to die; after all, if you didn't, my job security would go down the drain.

People fear me.

They shouldn't.

I'm just the inevitable, the being you can never outrun, no matter how hard you try. I will catch you in the end, and then you become mine. It may sound ruthless, but it isn't. It's my job. That's all there is to it.

I'm not saying I don't have competition; like any other industry, of course I have competition. Doctors, nurses, search and rescue services, they all do a valiant job, battling against me. I call them Angels de la Muerte, angels of death. Not in the traditional sense, but I call them that because they are the guardians of life. Bit of a paradox, isn't it?

Five Angels de la Meurte, I've met more than once. In fact, I've met them so often, I like to think we can be friends when we meet for the last time.

Trust me; I can most definitely be cheerful with this job. I can be amiable, agreeable, affable. That's just the beginning of the alphabet. I can be a breath of fresh air when I want to be.

I'm nothing if not fair.

Just don't ask me to be nice.

I don't do nice.

First the humans.

Then the colours.

That's how I see things.

At least, that's how I try.


	2. The First Time

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter 2

This is not a story of death.

Well, it is a story of Death, but not a story of death.

That would be depressing.

This is not a story of life.

That would be predictable.

This is a story of friends, meeting and meeting again, until they meet for the final time.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, I didn't actually visit the eldest of them first.

I know, a bit out of order, but what is Death if you can't shake things up a bit?

He was the youngest at the time.

It should have been my first collection. Hey, we all had first days on the job, and he was mine. I was instructed to wait there, wait until a conclusive result had been established.

A traumatic birth, with the umbilical cord noosed around his neck.

A face as blank as a slate. No weathered in features, no distinctive scars, nothing,

I don't know much about the beginnings of life – it sort of goes against everything I stand for – but I do know that babies aren't meant to be born bluey-purple, a sharp contrast to the fine dusting of red hair he had. I do know that they're meant to make quite the ear-splitting racket when they're born. But he was quiet. He wasn't flailing his legs and arms like a drying out octopus. He was still, like a marble statue.

Over the years, I've learnt not to think so much about it, I've learnt to get on with the job, but on my first day, it came as a shock. I didn't expect this to be quite so… blunt, bare, brutal.

The Angels de la Muerte waged war on his fragile body, compressing down on his pleural cavity, blowing air through a straw to mimic breathing. I hovered in the background, ever present, watching the scene unfold. I disregard the parents; they're irrelevant. This is between him, the Angels and me. It's two against one, but it's still a fair fight. I'm a much stronger opponent than they are.

He flatlined, and I moved forward. I reached him, held one tiny finger in my hand, and paused, just for a second. I could have spirited him away, should have spirited him away, but I didn't.

Such a young thing, going to such a waste.

Such is Death.

And in that instant, I sensed a challenge in him. He twitched, and I could feel him slipping away from me. I looked down, and his eyes had opened slightly. They were almond shaped, a unique colour. Sometimes they glinted green, but at other times, they seemed almost amber.

They had the spark of life.


	3. Two for the Price of One

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Three

They say a touch of Death can bring back life.

I don't really like that saying.

I've never liked having to give back things once they're mine.

* * *

I dropped in on the eldest son next.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. I was there for the mother; he just happened to be there. He just happened to witness it. He was the collateral damage that comes part and parcel of my job.

She was my main priority, but if I could get two for the price of one, I would. I was a professional bargain hunter before this, and I was rather good at that job too.

She, I knew I would collect. There was no doubt about it. Her breath rattled, her body trembled with the effort of keeping her alive. Her eyes were dulled, pained. Even her hair seemed limp and lifeless.

Animals know when their time is up, and the same can be said for humans. At a basic level, humans are animals, savage and tamed beasts.

She would not last the night, but she fought and struggled every step of the way. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier on her if she had just given in. Sometimes I wonder if the boy would have given up too, if she hadn't have fought.

Humans believe that white is meant to be a pure colour, untouched and unmarred, but that isn't true. I taint everything I come into contact with, and I don't discriminate against anything. She was blue, against a backdrop of white.

Sailor's colours.

Quite appropriate, since she was about to sail through the Valley of Death with me. Where she ended up, I did not know. I still don't know. It's not my business to determine whether a soul ends up in heaven (if it exists) or hell (if it exists). I just lead them on.

She saw me, knew everything she needed to know. I held out my hand to her, like I always do. Reluctantly, she grasped onto me. Ironically, I had become her lifeline.

A moment of understanding, and she pierced me with an icy gaze. No-one had ever stared me in the eye before. I was to take her, and leave the boy… leave her son, alone.

And then we set off on our perilous journey, leaving the boy crying over the meat-shell of his mother, in our wake.


	4. It Ain't Over Until the Thin Man Sings

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Thank you so much for all the feedback you've given me! It means the world and has been real useful in motivating me back into writing this chapter after a tough two weeks. Damn bushfire.**

**The original draft for John was incredibly different (with a bit of modification, it should be posted up in due course). But then he chewed away at my ear (it sounds strange, I know) and he dictated the way this went. ****Definitely not for the people who view the Tracy boys as monks :P**

Chapter Four

Bed is the poor man's opera.

It's also the rich man's opera too, if you get my drift.

In their final moments, many people seem surprised, mortified, even embarrassed to be caught where they are. They shouldn't be. They are not the first person to be caught that way, nor will they be the last.

I'm Death.

I've seen it all before.

* * *

It has been said that the second brother is the sensible one. Timid and tame, shy and retiring. Socially awkward.

That is a lie.

The second brother is quite the dark horse. He can be charming, he can be charismatic. He can lock eyes with females across the bar and melt her insides with one quirk of his eyebrow. He can ensure that the female will be going back home with him, just by making her feel like the most important woman on the planet. He knows that what he invests in them in the beginning, he will get back in equal measure later that night. Or early the next morning, depending on how you look at it.

Naturally, he discovered this while he was in college, while he was a poor man.

That is where I begin this meeting, standing in a darkened corner in a room that's illuminated with one candle. I don't need to look at the silhouettes on the wall to know exactly what he's up to, what he looks like. Strong, powerful, confident and sure of himself. I don't need to see the scene play out to know how I'll collect him.

And then I hear the sound I've been waiting for. I hear the hum of wings and watch it locate my charge. The charge swats at it, but it does not deter the bee. It flies into him like a honing missile in a temper, a slight twang as the stinger separates from the thorax.

I watch the normally pale skinned person slowly flush a ruby red. He knows he's highly allergic to bee stings, and that makes my job that much harder. He doesn't know that pulling on the stinger is, in fact, the worst thing he can do, and he tugs impatiently at it. That makes my job easier. His breathing strangles in his throat and the red slowly turns blue. It doesn't match his eyes.

The Death Rattle.

I glide down on him and cradle him close to my chest. Cerulean blue eyes widen at the sight of me. I can see that he doesn't believe it's his time just yet, but that isn't for him to decide.

He pushes against me with one arm - a fighter, just like his mother – and his other hand rummages around in his discarded clothing. He pulls out an Epi-pen and injects it straight into his thigh. Triumph gleams in his eye. It ain't over until the thin man sings.

John Tracy:1, Death:0.

Not that it matters.

The point that counts will always belong to me.


	5. Light Meat or Dark?

**Disclaimer: see chapter one.**

Chapter 5

I'm a collector, to the point of being considered a hoarder. Don't judge me; humans collect things too. I've seen a vast array of meaningless items – stamps, thimbles, spoons, planes, trains… the list goes on and on – displayed proudly on their mantle pieces or their showcase cabinets.

I collect the thing most precious to you. I just collect the thing that defines you as a distinct individual.

I collect you, and you are demoted. You are simply one of the masses, a tiny fragment of a jigsaw puzzle, that, when completed, forms a picture, a kaleidoscope where everything is the same.

* * *

I can't see much of him, since his Death capsule is shrouded in darkness, but I know his face is contorted in pain. I can watch him panic as he can't feel anything below his waist. I see him bubble out blood from his mouth; observe him as he gags on the smell of fire and gasoline.

I'll be honest with you; there are many places I hate going. Illegal street drag races are one of the worst, but irresponsible, impulsive seventeen year olds will do whatever the little voice in their head tells them to.

Food was an indulgence of mine before I was employed as Death, and street drag races – with fires come the smell of singed meat – reminds me of barbeques gone wrong.

There is a metal pole sticking out from between his true and floating ribs. Don't ask me where it comes from, but it will be the Death of him. I'll make sure of it, unless the Angels interfere, as they are so prone to do.

He groans again, an anguished animal, and more blood spurts out from around the object he's impaled on, staining his drag racing champion jacket from last year. I guess that this is the modern day way of being run through.

In Death 101 (yes, there are qualification courses for this gig), the mentor had told all of us that we were only visible during a person's final hour, give or take the odd few minutes.

Out of his peripheral vision, he sees me. I can tell by the way his shoulders sag. Unlike his older brothers, the youngest has no problem with giving up without a fight.

That's disappointing; when my job is harder, collecting their souls is more rewarding.

He nods in my direction and the baseball cap he's been wearing sideways slips over his eyes. Whether I will be granting him a reprieve by following his request, or whether I am squandering his chance of achieving his full potential (such as it is, if he's giving up so easily) remains to be seen.

I can hear his heartbeat pounding in my ear, slowly weakening under the strain. I hold out my hand, an open invitation.

Hesitation on his part.

That's all the Angels need. They shimmy their way into his coffin, inject something straight into his neck.

It doesn't seem to have worked. I can still hear his heartbeat fading.

They mutter words of encouragement to him. That's all he needs. His eyes flutter open, flick in my direction. They glow with the light of someone who's realised that they've been given a second chance.

And in that moment, I know that it's not happening. I do the only thing I can do.

I cut my losses, and earmark him for a later date.


	6. Singin' the Blues

Chapter Six

The pentatonic scale consists of five notes.

A component of music, most common to jazz, blues and folk music. There is no wrong note in the pentatonic scale; no matter which key you hit, you know it's going to sound stellar.

Life doesn't come with a pentatonic scale.

One day, you will hit that wrong note.

It's not the wrong note.

It's the note you were going to hit all along.

* * *

It starts off on a deserted island. The skeletal structure – with the exception of the roof – of the luxury villa is complete, but it lacks the creature comforts that would turn a house into a home. The only complete structure – with a roof and all – right now is Sick Bay.

One such luxury is the electric blue grand piano.

The doorways to the villa are too narrow for the piano to fit through right side up, and they are too short for the piano if it's flipped on its side. It is this predicament that has led to the middle son strapping his baby to a crane and ordering his eldest brother to gently drop it through the open roof into what would be the lounge.

It seems eccentric, almost ridiculous to go to such lengths, but with money burning a hole in their pocket, I imagine they can justify why they bought a crane in the first place.

_Everything good to go, Virg?_

The chestnut haired one stands on the inside and flips the darker haired edition of himself a thumbs up.

The crane manoeuvres into the right spot and slowly inches the piano down, following the calls from the middle brother. The piano jerks wildly, a puppet on a string. The strings are weak. The ties that hold the piano in place begin to snap.

It happens in a flash.

A blur of blue, and the piano catapults towards the ground. The middle brother remains rooted to the spot, staring up in abject horror at his beloved piano hurtling towards him.

There is a sickening crunch, his neck collapsing in on his spine and the paper doll he is crumples to the ground. There is a laceration to his skull, bleeding profusely. There is pandemonium as everyone reacts to the catastrophe, flying in from all directions.

_Virg, Virg, can you hear me? _

It is the panicked voice of the eldest brother. Disbelief laces his tone, as if he could not understand how things have gone so wrong.

_I'm sorry. I should have been able to get you out of the way. _

He forgets the fact that he was inside the crane cab when it happened.

_Spinal board and neck brace, Alan._

It is the father issuing out orders.

_John, alert Brains down in Sick Bay and start sterilising equipment. Gordon, get on the phone to the doctor. Have him fly out here immediately, and then keep Scott away. He'll hover and fret, and that won't help Virgil._

Blood drips to the floor, a red carpet for me to walk on. I kneel down beside him and he sees me. There is a glimmer of recognition in his face; after all, this is not the first time I have come for him. His eyebrows knit together to form a monobrow and his caramel eyes harden. He dares me.

Challenge accepted.

He puts up a fight. Four years later, and he's still as strong as he ever was.

I concede defeat when I realise his will is more powerful than my cast iron one, not to mention the fact that he bites down – canines are extremely sharp – on my hand as I grab him. His will must be made out of stainless steel, or titanium.

I shirk my hand away from him and stare him down.

_Next time,_ I tell him.

_Next time._


	7. Lethal Weapon

**Disclaimer: see chapter one.**

Chapter seven

Too much of a good thing is bad.

Too much of a good thing is, in actual fact, quite good.

Too much of a bad thing is bad.

Too much of a bad thing is good, too.

It's all about that tenuous balance, and that is applicable to everything. It's walking a tightrope, but not having a safety net if you fall. It's the most lethal weapon known to mankind.

The balance is the fine line between life and death.

* * *

There had been talk of some new Angels hitting the block, some new competition on the market to challenge me and my colleagues. Yes, there are more of me; contrary to popular belief, even Death can't defy the laws of Physics and be in two or more places at the same time.

International Rescue, I believed they were called, but none of us had seen hair or hide of them. It appeared to be just a rumour, which suited me just fine.

Fiction is based on fact.

Rumours became reality.

International Rescue has been a reality for five, coming up to six years now. International Rescue has cut down on my, as a collective, demand, saving more people than they lost. Despite their best intentions, it was a futile operation; for every life they saved, another would be taken in its place. It would catch up to them eventually.

The fact that one of their own is up for grabs?

That's just par for the course.

We begin at almost the stroke of midday. My collection shuffles in, hands and legs bound together to a chain around his waist. His shoulders are slumped, not unusual for a man in his position.

Dead man walking, and he knows it.

The guards unshackle him and strap him down to a table. A click as his arms are fastened to the chair and the restraining strap around his torso is secured.

The Death Grip.

The rip of the alcohol swab that's used to sterilise his arm echoes around the room, and IV lines are stabbed into his veins. Spectators surround him, stare at him like he's an animal in the zoo, but it makes little difference to me. This is between him and me.

His blue eyes, normally crystal clear, even in the face of me – I know because I've seen him at least four times before this – are clouded over. His skin is sallow, yellowed like old paper, brown hair all mussed up. His body is rigid, taut as a knotted muscle, and the injections haven't even started yet.

But I'm wrong.

I can see the liquid sliding through the IV line. I can watch him clench up, his mouth wide open in a silent scream, and then unwittingly relax as the liquid reigns control over his body. I can taste his reluctance of leaving, taste the fear he has of leaving his family behind in the wake of the imminent disaster.

In the distance, something rings. I swivel towards the sound and see smoke rising from a funeral pyre on the horizon. It's time for me to go elsewhere.

After all, I can't lose if I walk away before the game is over.


	8. Circle of Life

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

******AN: I hope everyone had an enjoyable New Year and spent some quality time doing the things they enjoyed :D  
I********t's been a while since I've done some updating due to a trip back to the mother country. A good trip, well, until the end, since I'm stuck in another airport. **

Chapter Eight

Time is not linear, contrary to popular belief.

Time is not a full circle, either.

Time is whatever you make of it, pure platinum in liquid form. It has no shape, no structure, and no discernible pattern to follow.

Time exists in a state of constant flux, moulding and shaping itself any which way it likes. Time links the past to the present and the present to the future.

Time is a gift that keeps on giving until you run out of it.

* * *

The smoke rises up into the sky and I leave the previous charge for the new one. I pass through the years, I witness marriages, births, deaths, more births and more unions, but I never seem to leave this particular family. I observe how easily this family can expand and accommodate more to their herd, and unwillingly contract as they lose one of their numbers.

I don't know the exact timeframe, but I'd wager that I've travelled at least five years forward, give or take the odd couple of hours.

His family – a daughter, son-in-law and grandson – have gathered around his funeral pyre. The pyre consists of a fiery inferno. Surrounded by plenty of flammable material, the figure remains on his back, eagle spread, eyes wide open, skin melting into a puddle on the ground. He's a disfigured wax model.

On an irrational impulse, his son-in-law tries to lunge forward through the flames. It's a lesson in futility. A raging hot inferno is no match for the plastic-like properties of skin, especially without any fire resistant clothing. The blond backs off, cradling his burnt hands, crying out in pain.

_Wimp,_ I think to myself, knowing it is that much worse for the person who is burning away.

The family holiday through the Malaysian jungle isn't going as they had planned. Freak lightning storms ignited the trees surrounding them and they haven't got the hope of International Rescue coming to their aid; the rescue organisation is busy dealing with cyclone devastation elsewhere.

"Kyrano!" the towhead yells.

"Father!" the raven haired woman cries out. Another lesson in futility.

I watch them retreat as I slide easily through the amber glow and squat down beside him. He blinks up at me and the light flickers in and out of his eyes. It could be an illusion, the flames dancing around him, but I know better.

I invite him to rise up to my level, rise up as an equal and depart this land with me. He shrugs his shoulders neatly and nods. A man connected to Nature, he is well aware of the Circle of Life, the ebbing and flowing of tides, the seasons of change, the experiences that come with age, the fact that everything that lives must die.

He is not a lamb being led to slaughter; he is the trailblazer.

He is the example that the rest of the people in his family – immediate and extended – will follow.


	9. Space: The Final Frontier

**Disclaimer: see chapter one.**

**AN: So, after offing Jeff, Scott (in different stories) and Kyrano (in this one), I figured it's time for another character to kick the bucket. For all the readers that were disappointed with the ending to the fifth chapter, this is for you.**

Chapter Nine

The sky's the limit?

Maybe for you, but not for Death.

I exist everywhere.

I infiltrate anything I can find.

Are you 20000 leagues under the sea?

No problem! I'll find you.

Walking the planet and its surroundings may seem like a _Where's Wally _picture puzzle, but in the same way you don't give up until you spot Wally, I don't concede defeat until you're mine.

* * *

Space is a chasm of nothing. It's the bits in between that make the cosmos. It's the bits in between that drive fascination with the unknown. It's the bits in between that have led him to where he is.

The carrot stick – or Thunderbird Three, as they call it – hurtles through the gaps in space junk that floats in the Van Allen Belt, as well as the cosmic rays that penetrate through the belt and into the cabin. Or, at least, the captain at the helm of the ship tries to dodge the flying projectiles that come his way. One such projectile – the size of a small car – slams into the hull of the reinforced carbon fibre and aluminium structure. The residual energy from the collision dissipates in shockwaves which rumble through the cabin and it leaves a sizeable dent in the frame, but it doesn't render the ship unflyable.

It does, however, signal the beginning of a slippery slope downhill.

It does, however, give my presence a purpose.

There is no way for the youngest blond son to see what comes next.

Cosmic rays look like a rainbow to me; a mixture of aggressive reds, calming blues, neutral greens. Cosmic rays taste like Skittles, like the Land of Eternal Peace, smell like buttercups and daisies and freshly mowed grass. Cosmic rays embody bliss.

Who would have thought a cosmic ray combined with junk the size of an overinflated beach ball would be the Death of him? Who would have thought that Death could be so humiliating, especially for a forty year old, allowing him to cark it in the place where he feels most alive?

Some more metal space junk spears its way through the shell of the rocket, straight through the control centre where he sits, straight through him. His body is pulverised, molecules floating with dust. There is no one else here with him; this is a solo mission, done out of defiance, impulsiveness and good intentions gone wrong.

Not for the first time, he sees me and nods.

The end result of Alan Tracy is not pretty, but I never expected it to be. His meat shell is flattened, pinned onto the interior wall by the flying projectile. Ruby red blood contrasts to the otherwise white walls. Cold blue eyes stare out into nothing.

_If it's time, it's time,_ his eyes blink at me, shoulders slumped, completely defeated and dejected. _Just do what you have to do._

I imagine he's seen himself too, and knows that this is the final frontier.

I follow his directive. I take him by the hand and do what I have to do.


	10. Good Ol' Days

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Ten

Being Death is not all cupcakes and fairy floss.

It can be exciting, thrilling, breathtaking, but it is always draining.

No one is meant to remember these emotions, relics of what was once human life, but we do.

But we do.

We try to recapture the past in one fleeting moment.

It is the recollections that undo us all.

* * *

When you boil it down to the basics, Death functions like a 24/7 business. There's a hierarchy within the system; those who've been doing this for eons are the boss, and everyone else falls into place under them. Like any other business, employees will grapple with each other to get the charges they desire the most, and flog off the charges they think they will despise, or charges that may be false alarms. Like any other business, Death has retirees, and to counter this, we have to employ new people.

Today is Intake Day.

For anyone, this would be one of the worst ways to go. For the man I've come to collect, this is humiliating, to say the least. The man that lies supine on the bed before me has always been in control – you can trust me on that – and to lose it due to a series of strokes must grate on his pride. First it was his coordination, his ability to move unaided. Then his speech deteriorated into a stutter, so similar to the engineer that made his brainchild come true. Then memory; and it kept sliding downhill until he reached the point he is today.

Dribble drips from pale pink lips and the fourth son, now the youngest son alive, wipes it away with a bit of Kleenex. The third son uses long, bony fingers to push back stray strands of fine hair. The eldest holds his hand and offers up a watery smile. The second son barrels through the door and grasps the other hand.

The father blinks – the only movement he can consciously coordinate – at each of his son, acknowledging them, thanking them for sticking by him through everything, the good times and the bad. Warm gratitude lies deep in the depths of cool grey, but the sons don't have to search far to find it.

His hands slacken, his pale skin turns translucent and his eyes shut to the outside world. His eyes open to see me, something I've wanted for so long.

He tilts his head to the left. One of the wonders of Death is that you're unencumbered by all the restraints a corporeal version of you has. Recognition dawns on him, and something inside of him and me loosens.

_Lucy?_ He breathes out in disbelief, blinking rapidly.

I nod and push back the draping from around my head.

_But… it can't be._

_Why not? _I narrow my eyes. _You're dead too, Jefferson. Anything is possible from here on in._

In my hand is a cloth of black, a graduation down for him. I press it into his hand and grab him by the wrist. He grabs back and pulls me to him, crushing me to his chest. This has never happened to me as Death before, and I relax into him after so long of not having this. Just like the good ol' days.

There is so much we have to catch up on, so much more I have left to teach him.

Now that we're together again, he as my student, and I his mentor, there is so much more for us to discover.


	11. Sailing Off into the Sunset

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Thank you, thank you for all the reviews you've left. My apologies for not being able to reply to each one, but a crazy week and a bit thanks to some crazy weather ate through the spare time I had set aside to reply. Hard to believe that in a space of five days the dangers near home have changed from out of control bushfires to floods. Not that I mind too much - I've always wanted an indoor swimming pool :P  
**

**Anyway, time to forge forward with the story.**

Chapter Eleven

He used to rescue in a yellow submarine,

He played a prank and it got painted green.

The green matched Two, so he coloured Four red.

The red wasn't waterproof, so now he's all dead.

* * *

They had been inoperable for several years now, ever since I claimed the youngest, but it still didn't prevent the ex-operatives of International Rescue from taking their machines out on pleasure inducing joyrides.

Currently, the lean, mean, yellow submarine is being battered by torrential waves. It reminds me of a tiny toy in a tin bath, bobbing up and down as it oscillates with the huge swells and waves after surfacing from the depths of the ocean. The submarine groans under the strain the captain is demanding of it.

_C'mon, _he grunts, forcing the steering column in the opposite direction. Sweat works its way down his forehead, and he over exerts himself as he tries to prove who the boss is in this situation. _Work with me, baby, work with me._

To no avail. The submarine smashes violently into the jagged rocks that line the shore. The engines at the back crumple as if they were made out of tin instead of reinforced carbon fibre and titanium. Rivets pop out of their sockets, and another wave rocks the sub, tipping it onto its side. Before the red head can right his ship, another wave drives the submarine into a serrated cliff face on the island. It dents the airlock so bad he won't be able to get out.

Almond shaped eyes, glowing ethereally greenish, stare at the airlock momentarily. Understanding dawns on him, and he nods his head as I become visible to him. He draws in a breath, confident, a touch of red in his cheeks as adrenaline pumps through him, even though he's facing me. Good man; I raised him that way.

_I'll go with you,_ he conveys with his eyes,_ but I'll go on my terms. You know me; yes Sir, sure Sir, I'll do my own thing, Sir._

I understand. He wants to go with his dignity intact. I'll give him that much; after all he's done in his lifetime, it's the least I can do. It's the way I would have liked to have gone, if I had the chance.

With steely determination, he straps himself into the seat of Thunderbird Four and waits as the water cascades in. I stand behind him, vice one shoulder in my grip. It serves a dual purpose; he won't escape me, and it's an act of support for him. Every father needs to support his son.

As Thunderbird Four sinks to the ocean floor, Gordon and I glide to the surface. He slings one arm around my shoulder.

_Nice to see you here, Dad,_ he smiles at me, all pearly whites glinting in a rare moment of light.

As if I would be anywhere else. Gently, I steer him away from the wreck that was once his life, and together, we sail off into the sunset.


	12. Humpty Dumpty

**Disclaimer: see chapter one. Should mention that I don't own E.T either. Just covering my bases, even though it's a teeny-tiny reference. **

**AN: So, it's been a busy couple of weeks. The indoor swimming pool became a reality, and real life gave way to uni issues and everything spiralled out from that point. Not to mention a slight reluctance to do this chapter, just because of what's happening and who it's happening to. Having said that, thank you for sticking with this for so long, even with sporadic updates. Hope you guys enjoy... well, enjoy is the wrong word, but you know what I mean.**

Chapter Twelve

There is a saying in the English language: there is always a light at the end of a tunnel.

In some cases, this is true.

In some cases, this is false.

You're more likely to find the light at the end of E.T.'s finger. At least, that was what was shown in the classic film, the remake of the classic and the remake of the remake. E.T. always had that light guiding him.

The cold, harsh reality is that your life runs on a set of train tracks. You land on your feet and start running in one direction, always checking over your shoulder to keep the monster at bay. You run to avoid the light.

You see, the light at the end of the tunnel really isn't a light. Nor is it at the end of a tunnel.

In actual fact, it is the headlamps of a speeding train.

* * *

At eighty years of age, the only thing the man has lost is weight. He is still as stubborn, as obstinate as he was when he was a little boy. It is this stubbornness that caused him to deny the fact that cataracts was clouding his vision, clouding his judgment.

Had he been a little less stubborn, he would not have dragged himself behind the wheel of a car on a dark, moonless night. He would not have taken a curve on the road too fast. He would not have careered wildly, trying to avoid the unforeseen potholes, crevices deeper than the moon craters he had marvelled at when he was in space, flooded from the rain that was pelting down. He would not have flipped the car onto its roof. The car would not have skidded and smashed through a fence. He would not have woken up, freed from the car, disoriented, and stumbled out onto the train tracks.

In the distance, a small light source shines in the distance. I watch him as he turns and waves at it. As it grows bigger, he hobbles towards it. The train passes the point of no return, and the peroxide haired elder still hasn't realised.

Only when he is moments away from being cleaved in two underneath the steel wheels of the train, realisation dawns. He turns again, steely determination in cool blue eyes, but there is no point.

It happens in a flash. The train passes through him, a knife sliding through melted butter, clean in two.

_Off with his head,_ I think to myself.

Blood smears away in two neat lines as the train slices through him. Brain matter leaks out from his ears. Such a waste of an intellectual.

Once the train passes, I kneel down by him and piece him back together again. There are no King's horses, and no King's men here; it is just me stitching him together again, and it is painstaking work. There are 206 bones in the human body, and I know that this man will not come with me until I have pieced him back together with anatomical precision. He will not accept a radius missing from his left arm, nor will he like me omitting his zygomatic arch. There is nothing I can do about his liquids, his flat-as-a-pancake organs, though.

I think of the nursery rhyme, the one where the egg shatters into thousands of pieces, just because he sat on a brick wall. Just because he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

When he is whole, he rises up, nods at me and gives me a hug.

_Would never have thought you would have done that, Alan. _

I shrug.

_Thank you, for my dignity._

It's the least I could do. His hand slides through the crook in my elbow, and he smiles.

_Where to, now?_

Where to, indeed?

He knows not. I know not. We move with fraternal fluidity, the way we always have, to wherever we are supposed to go.


	13. Picture Perfect

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Never again! I am never killing off this particular character again! It is just too hard, which I guess bodes well for fans of this character. Yes, I know I'm being deliberately vague, but I don't want to give the game away before the chapter starts. It's not as squeamish as the last one (I hope!) so... enjoy.**

Chapter Thirteen

Stereotypes bother me. They bother me a lot.

I am not the shadowed figure tv shows portray me to be, complete with a skeletal hand and scythe. Well, sometimes I am, but that's only on Halloween and April Fool's Day, when I want to give the people that kick the bucket a bit of scare.

I am nothing to be frightened of, even though you can't see me, can't decipher my plan of attack until I initiate it.

When you look at me – and I mean really look at me, once you've overcome the initial shock of being dead – I look just like an ordinary person.

A picture tells a thousand words.

A picture will show you who I really am.

* * *

Two footprints, and four paw prints, weave their way through the sand on the Floridian beach, avoiding semi demolished sandcastles, spiky bits of shattered shell, coarse, crunchy bundles of seaweed that's washed up overnight. The sky is a mix of pinky-blue hues, interspaced with splattering of blood red.

Sunrise is usually the time for this to happen.

There is an electric current, a charge in the air that isn't usually present. The dog picks up on it instantly and barks loudly, spinning around in helicopter circles, lathering herself up into a fretful state.

Beside him, the eighty three year old man squats down by the dog, rubbing a hand over his heart, trying to ease the knot that threatened to explode from inside his chest.

"Easy, Lobo," he says, rubbing the Golden Retriever behind her ears, misreading the signs. "We'll play Fetch in a minute. I just want to paint the sunrise."

Little does he know, but he will not get that far. I watch him struggle to set up his easel on the shifting sand, squatting to even out the legs of the stand. I watch him move, joints seizing up at times, like the Tin Man after a storm, watch him struggle to do the things that give him the simplest of pleasures in life. Now that I think about it, majority of his adult life has been a struggle, thanks to me and my kind. He struggled to deal with the fallout of the three failed pregnancies his wife had suffered through. He struggled to deal with Death on a catastrophic scale, when International Rescue was just too damn late to stop me from completing my rounds. He struggled to cope when his wife died unexpectedly. He struggled when he was a pallbearer for funerals, funerals for his father, his friends, his wife and his brothers. He struggled a lot as he aged, popping various pills for a series of ailments that plagued him, anything to just keep a weakened heart from giving out completely.

It seems fitting, if slightly brutal, to watch him struggle until I can relieve him of his pain and suffering.

He can't even make it to stand up on his own two feet again. Instead, his knees give out from under him and he keels over, clutching at his heart, gasping for breath he cannot draw. He lands face first in the sand, inhaling and choking on the small particles that lodge in his throat. Lobo the dog scampers over to help her master, but she senses how close I am to the choking man and backs off.

Sighing, I kneel down beside him and gently rotate his neck, wipe the sand from around his mouth. My hands hover over his eyelids, and there is a part of him that stares up at me.

_Make it stop, _he begs of me. _Make the pain stop. I can't take it much longer._

I nod my promise, slide my hands down over his eyelids, closing those honey-burnt eyes of his, a seal of his fate. Then I raise him up to stand next to me.

Equals now, not one trying to outrun the other.

_Wait,_ Virgil holds up one hand, commanding me, as his oldest little brother, to stop dead in my tracks.

Old habits die hard (no, given my occupation now, that isn't meant to be a joke), and I comply.

_I want to do what I came here to do. I want to paint the sunrise._

I glance down at my list. Today is a light day for Death, only about 150,000 people to collect compared to the average of 300,000. I can spare him an hour before we move on.

It doesn't take that long. Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at his last masterpiece. He's captured the sunrise, more reds than blues, more shadow than light. Lobo is in one corner, himself in the other. He's captured himself painting his painting – it's almost like Paintception.

Front and centre in his picture, there I am. There is nothing hidden about me; he paints me as he sees me, and he sees me the way he should.

I stand there, much like my picture counterpart, waiting for him to join me, so we can venture off into the unknown.


	14. The Good Life

**Disclaimer: please see chapter one.**

Chapter Fourteen

Life is not set in stone. Life exists in a state of flux, ebbing and flowing as it needs to. Life is what you make of it, whether you spend your time wallowing in the past, dwelling on those missed opportunities, or you lead a good life and achieve everything you've wanted and more.

Life is what you make of it, but so is Death.

You may think you spend most of your life learning how to live, right from the instant you're born, but that isn't it. In fact, you spend most of your life preparing to die.

* * *

They gather around him in a circle, a mix of old faces, new faces, faces I've seen before, but can't quite put a name to. His slice of the family has expanded much further than anyone would have thought possible. Luckily for him, he was able to bear witness to it all.

The ultimate family man until the end.

The group breaks out into song, and I recognise the warbled tune of happy birthday coming from them, diverging when they have to insert his name. His children sing "Dad", his grandkids and great grandkids a variation of the word grandpa, and his surviving nephews use the term "Uncle Scott."

Talk about full circle. I had forgotten that it was the 4th April.

The cake is placed in front of the 98 year old man, and he struggles to blow them out. A hacking cough rises deep from within his throat instead and his chest constricts over his lungs, a python crushing him until he fights to breathe.

"Come help me blow them out, Virgil," he croaks, staring straight through an eleven year old boy, staring straight at me.

I move forward, and so does the boy. Feeling foolish, I retreat. When it comes to collecting my family members, I forget that they can't see who I am until the very end.

He continues to stare at me. 98 years old, and his gaze is just as piercing as it was when we were in the field on a rescue mission.

_You too,_ I read in his eyes. _I was including you in that statement._

Unable to disobey a direct order from him, I move forward too. A slight nod from him, and we both know it's time for him to call it quits.

On his other side, his youngest daughter sits down beside him. "How are you feeling, Daddy?"

"Tired," he replies back softly. "Happy, but very tired. I might just rest my eyes for a minute."

It is this minute that will stretch into eternity for them.

It is this minute that makes this trip worthwhile for me. It is this minute that allows him to metamorphose from a 98 year old, frail man, to a 29 year old man, back in the prime of his life. He becomes the brother I remember him to be when we were out in the field.

_Had the good life, haven't you? _I hold out my hand towards him. _It's been a long time, Scott._

_It's been a long time coming,_ he agrees. _Wasn't expecting to see you, though._

I snort at that. _As if I'd let Alan do something as important as this!_

Scott laughs at that too. _Be nice to Alan. If he heard that, he'd be pouting._

Slinging my arm around his shoulder, I lead him away, just off to the side of the lounge, near the light fixtures on the wall.

_I didn't think you'd come back to Tracy Island after quitting International Rescue, Scott._

_I didn't either, but it became the right move for the family. Especially in the decades after the Hood incident._

There's a moment of quiet contemplation. We both stare out of the glass windows at the sunset. It's something we used to do after a rescue. Old habits are so easy to fall back into. The Sun sneaks back behind a cloud, and that is the signal for me.

_Scott, it's time for us to go._

Scott nods, takes one last look at his progeny and links one arm through the crook of my elbow. With the other hand, he pulls on the light fixture. We revolve out of the lounge and into Thunderbird One's silo. Automatically, the gantry shrieks and shudders its way to the cockpit of the reconnaissance craft.

Scott quirks one brown eyebrow at me as he climbs inside her. _Hey, if I'm going, I'm going in style. Wanna ride shotgun?_

It's a rare opportunity. Scott never shares flying privileges with anyone, so I'll grab it with both hands. I slide the door shut behind me, slip into the seat beside him and retract the pool. Together, a team again, we fly off, fly under the radar, until we are nothing more than a distant memory from the past.


End file.
